


just to see you mess around

by andnowforyaya



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Derek got some therapy, Future Fic, M/M, Multi, Promiscuity, Triggers, Violence, like lots of blow jobs, no one expected feelings, she wanted bicycle!stiles well okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-10 23:13:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andnowforyaya/pseuds/andnowforyaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time, Stiles is in a classroom after hours, the shades pulled shut and the door locked, and his knees are already starting to hurt from the hard floor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MajorAccent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorAccent/gifts).



> ficmix: [just to see you mess around](http://8tracks.com/andnowforyaya/just-to-see-you-mess-around)

The first time, Stiles is in a classroom after hours, the shades pulled shut and the door locked, and his knees are already starting to hurt from the hard floor.

The other guy's a senior named Jon, and he would never have even spoken to Stiles if their teacher hadn't told him he needed to be tutored or he wouldn't graduate with his class, and they approached Stiles and Stiles shrugged and thought, it's the first week of high school and he could do with expanding his social circle.

"Yeah," Jon groans, hips in Stiles' face as he grips himself around his base. "Shut your little cocksucker mouth," he says, which - That's just rude, so Stiles makes to pull off, draws back but keeps his lips tight and hot and wet, and that's when he gets fingers in his hair, and suddenly he's gagging, this guy's dick trying to nudge past his throat and making his eyes water. He can feel the muscles of his throat fluttering, trying to adapt, trying to take it all in. He makes a noise of protest, but realizes it just sounds like a whimpering, needy moan.

He breathes through his nose and closes his eyes and it gets a little better, all his attention on the cock in his mouth and he feels so fucking  _zen_ , he realizes, other scattering thoughts blipped out by the hot and focused heat of pain and pleasure, that he drops his jaw a little more and the senior's grip in his hair changes, tilts him back, and then it's not a struggle anymore.

He gets fucked in the mouth until the guy's hips start becoming erratic in their rhythm, and he knows that he's close and he's listening to the nonsense noise above him - " _Oh, yeah._  Look at that pretty-boy mouth.  _Yeah, I bet you like someone shutting you up._ " - when Jon yanks his dick from Stiles' throat and Stiles is coughing, open-mouthed and lips and chin slick with spit, and Jon paints his come over Stiles' cheeks and tongue.

"Dude," Stiles says, voice raw and scratchy. "Gross."

"Nice study session," Jon smirks, taking tissues from the lab table he's leaning against to wipe himself off and tuck himself back in. He zips up, and then he takes another wad of tissues to wipe roughly at Stiles' face. Stiles bats him away, rising on sore knees.

"Next time, don't pull my hair," Stiles grumbles, stealing the tissues from him to clean himself. The material comes away sticky. He tosses the wad into the Bio-hazard bin.

"So buzz it," Jon tells him. He's packing up already. Stiles squints against his silhouette against the blinds of the windows. Then he's nudging past him with his shoulder and unlocking the door. "See you later."

Stiles opens the blinds and finishes his homework at the table, making sure to check for flyaway jizz and cleaning it up.

When he gets home, he buzzes his hair over the sink, tossing the clippings out with the garbage.

.

After that, the circumstances are much better. The hair helps. Or, the lack of it. It's nice being the one in control, the one setting the pace, the one smirking when Jon makes to grab his hair and his fingers slip through the short strands at Stiles' scalp, unable to find purchase.

He gets to experiment, as a result. What happens if he scrapes gently with his teeth, here? What happens if he takes it deep into his mouth and hums? Once, he manages to hold Jon's hips against the edge of the table and doesn't move, Jon groaning in frustration as Stiles breathes calmly through his nose, swallowing around a mouthful. 

"You're getting really good at this," Jon tells him, his hips trying to move past Stiles' grip, but Stiles' hands are firm as he looks up at Jon from underneath his lashes. He makes a noise of approval and that's it - Jon shakes as he spills into Stiles' mouth, some spit and dribble leaking from the corners. Stiles laps it up as Jon sags against the table.

Then there's Tyler under the bleachers after lacrosse practice, and Ethan by the pool, and Chuck in the lockers after a victory.

Stiles keeps his hair buzzed.

"It's a good look for you," Scott tells him with a sloppy smile as they're camped out in front of the television in Scott's living room, playing video games. His best friend, and Stiles hasn't told him anything. "You look...nice."

"Nice," Stiles repeats, running his fingers through his short short hair. "What, so I looked like an asshole before, is that what you're telling me?"

"No, no, no of course not. Oh my god, Stiles. Just learn to take a compliment." Scott grumbles. Stiles crushes him in their next raid and doesn't tell him how it makes him think about the picture one of the guys took of his well-fucked mouth. He told him he looked nice, too.

.

Then there are wolves, and lizard-boys, and Hunters and witches, and - call him crazy, but - Stiles would rather not stick anything in his mouth until it's been vetted 100% un-supernatural by a witch-doctor. Or something.

Danny, though. Danny is an exception. A sympathy blow behind Stiles' Jeep after Jackson skips town with no explanation.

Hey, Stiles would be pretty bummed himself if Scott did the same.

Danny knew about him, anyway. Had heard from a friend of a friend. "So it's true," is what Danny gasps when Stiles wraps long fingers around him, a hiss as his cold grip warms slowly. Stiles breathes hot and damp over the tip of Danny's cock and laughs when the muscle gives a twitch of interest. Danny cups the back of Stiles' neck and guides him forward, moaning when he breaks the seam of Stiles' lips.

He keeps his hand there, gentle and constant, but not pressing. Asking, not demanding. It's the first time Stiles' dick takes a real interest in the proceedings.

"I'm gonna--" Danny huffs, releasing the hold he has on Stiles' neck and trying to push him away. "Stiles, I'm gonna--"

Stiles ignores the hands, and he takes Danny just a little deeper, feels his throat protesting and then giving, yielding, swallows so that the column tightens around Danny's dick.

Danny comes with an aborted shout and grunt, and Stiles has no choice but to take all the spunk, gags a little when Danny draws himself out, flushed and erection flagging.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, Stiles." Danny praises him, traces a finger over Stiles' swollen lips. "Is this going to happen every time someone leaves?"

He doesn't kiss him, or anything, but he makes sure Stiles comes, too, that night, before driving home.

.

Then there's Derek, big and broken, who finally rents a loft near the center of town for the pack to converge, who makes sure Isaac finishes high school, who grudgingly buys Scott and Allison an engagement gift when they make it official after graduation, who doesn't throw Stiles around anymore against furniture or his car or anything. Like he's realizing how easily Stiles could break.

He touches Stiles sometimes, a heavy hand on his shoulder or flicking his ear in annoyance, and he even laughs, now. It's a good thing. Stiles grows warm around him. Can't stop letting his gaze linger on Derek's broad shoulders, trail down Derek's sculpted torso, the bulge in his tight jeans.

And - fuck,  _graduation_.

They've graduated and they're all still whole, mostly, still functioning, and college looms for most of them.

Stiles has sucked a lot of dick, in his day, but the more time that passes, the more he realizes how desperately he wants to choke himself on Derek's.

.

The first summer home, Chuck comes flying back into town, wants to meet up, wants to fuck.

Stiles says no, but Chuck pleads sweetly. They'll go out to dinner. A nice place. He reminds Stiles a little bit of Jackson - first line and rich, used to having his way.

"Okay," Stiles agrees. "But just dinner."

Dinner is at this Italian place the next town over where Chuck drives them, and it's fancy-nice just as promised, candle on the table next to a small vase holding a single flower. They talk about how much time has passed, how much things change and stay the same. The check comes, and Stiles excuses himself to use the restroom.

He is fully expecting to piss, check himself, wash his hands, and walk back to the table. It's when he's washing his hands, looking at the scalloped soap dish that's probably been empty ever since the restaurant switched over to automatic dispensers, that his expectations change, because Chuck walks in then, smiling, the door swinging shut behind him.

The men's room is otherwise empty. Chuck stands by the door, stance wide and confident, and he says, "So you gonna suck my dick now, or what?" and Stiles hears buzzing in his ears.

He shuts the faucet, fingers tingling, and repeats, "What?"

A numbness creeps over him as Chuck draws closer, crowding him against the counter of the sink.

"I said, are you gonna blow me, now?"

Stiles jaw tightens reflexively. "No," he forces out of his uncooperative mouth, eyes widening and then narrowing, warring with disbelief. "No, I'm not. I said dinner." He speaks slowly, like talking to a toddler. "Unless it's customary that your dinners come with blow jobs, I mean - I don't know what to tell you, man. No means no, and shit."

When Chuck's face contorts in anger, he really does look like Jackson, and that's when the alarms start sounding in Stiles' mind in earnest. "I just spent like sixty bucks on you," Chuck spits.

"And it was sixty bucks well spent," Stiles says, moving around Chuck without turning his back. If there's one thing he's learned from his time with the wolves, it's never to turn his back on a threat. He's oddly calm in the moment; maybe it's because he's faced things so much more dangerous than a guy with a bruised ego. "Now if you'll excuse me." He reaches for the door, and - fuck - he's underestimated Chuck.

Chuck lunges for him, clenching Stiles' forearm in a white-knuckled grip. Stiles yelps. Chuck drags them both against the door, keeping it shut. "You shouldn't tease," Chuck hisses, keeping Stiles pinned with a thigh shoved between Stiles', and hands leaving bruises on Stiles' wrists.

"I'll scream," Stiles threatens, pushing against him.

"I'll say you fell. These guys know me." He's not smiling, but he seems pleased. "Come on," he says, voice disgustingly innocent. "One for the road."

"Fuck off." Stiles exhales through his nose, and then spits in Chuck's face. The gob lands on his cheek and trickles down his skin. He smirks at Chuck, not heeding that voice inside him telling him not to antagonize the guy.

Chuck finally lets go of one of his wrists to wipe at the spit, and Stiles has just enough time to be pleased about his impending escape when Chuck backhands him across his face, and Stiles crumples to the ground, shock making his limbs weak. He touches a finger to his bottom lip and it comes away red with fresh blood. In the stunned hazy silence that follows, Chuck calls him a cockslut and storms out of the bathroom, leaving him.

It takes a minute, but he gathers himself back together, realizes he's sitting on the bathroom floor and winding himself up, takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

Dabs a wet paper towel against his split lip, wincing at the sting. Looks worse than it feels, he tells himself, examining his face in the mirror. It's already bruising, and a little shiny. Some guy walks in and Stiles startles, but the guy just raises an eyebrow at him and goes to piss at a urinal.

Out in the restaurant, the check is paid for, but Chuck is gone.

.


	2. Chapter 2

He sits on the curb outside the restaurant, staring at his phone, and thinks. Lydia is a three-hour's drive away, and Scott is busy with Allison. Isaac doesn't have a car. He calls Danny, but no one answers. It's Friday night, after all; Danny's probably out with old friends.

Finally, he calls Derek, dread forming a knot in his stomach. His lip twinges.

Derek answers on the second ring. "Stiles." 

"Hey, man," he greets, the words jumping out of him at the abrupt pick-up. "What's up?"

"What's wrong?" Derek asks immediately, and Stiles frowns. That's unfair.

"What makes you think something's wrong?"

"You never call. Me. You never call me. You text me," Derek reasons out loud for him, haltingly, but Stiles concedes his point. It's true. He didn't realize Derek noticed. "So what's wrong."

Stiles sighs into the phone, wonders if it sounds like static on the other end. "My date left me," he mumbles, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of one palm. "He drove; I'm stranded."

"So, what? You called me to be your chauffeur?"

"Pretty much." Stiles shrugs before remembering that Derek can't see him. He wonders if Derek'll come.

"What aren't you telling me."

It's not fair how Derek can do that - make a question not a question. Every word carries the weight of his alpha-status, a demand.

Stiles breathes. He chews on a thumbnail, catches it against the split skin of his lip and grits his teeth.

"Stiles," Derek says again, more gently this time.

He groans, frustrated, overwhelmed by the sudden urge to throw his phone across the parking lot. "Just - never mind, okay? I'll get car service, or something. I'll hitchhike. Whatever."

"No,goddammit, Stiles.  _Fine_. I'm coming. Where are you? Don't hitchhike. That's crazy."

Stiles tells him the name of the restaurant, and then he waits.

.

The drive back to Beacon Hills is tense. Stiles tries to ignore it, fiddling with Derek's radio until he lands on a station that's upbeat and dance-able, but his lip is on fire and he knows Derek is staring at the cut any time Stiles looks away, knows he has all sorts of questions he wants to ask but he's patient, or stoic, or just stubborn, and always has been.

He feels that knot of dread that formed before turning into something much more mutable and traitorous, a burn that pricks the backs of his eyes. He's not going to  _cry_ , no way, not in Derek's car after some jerkwad hurt his feelings, not after all the other shit he's gone through. He turns up the music and resolutely looks out the window.

Derek, bless him, doesn't speak until they pass through the county border, and he dials down the volume of the music.

"Your date did that," he says quietly when they have to stall for a red light between a gas station and a convenience store.

"Maybe," Stiles says, still looking out the window. It's stuffy. He jams his finger into the sensor that pulls the window down. "Maybe I fell. I'm pretty clumsy."

"Stiles," and there's that same gentle tone again, the one he used over the phone, the one that sounds fond and familiar and warm. Stiles wants to curl up in it, wrap himself up in a layer of Derek's low, rough voice. "It's okay."

Realization breaks over him like the horizon, and he thinks of Kate. He looks at Derek, sharp but sympathetic. "Oh, man," he tells him. "It's not like that at all."

.

Derek doesn't drive him home. They idle in front of his loft - it's above a little consignment shop right along the main road - and Derek frets with the radio until he just snaps it off, and the ensuing silence vibrates in the air.

"You don't want to go home like that," Derek says finally, his voice like a sigh. "Your dad will have an aneurism." He gestures to Stiles' face, like Stiles doesn't know that he's referring to the throbbing cut.

"I'll tell him I'm at Scott's." He takes out his phone to type his father a quick message.

Derek shuts off the engine, nodding to himself. Slowly, intently, he climbs out of the car. "I've got ice," he tells Stiles. "Come in when you're ready."

Stiles heaves a breath, annoyed when it shudders. Derek gets a loft and some therapy and suddenly he's the perfect Alpha. He's always had it in him, Stiles admits as he watches Derek let himself into the door on ground level. He was against getting one of the newer lofts in a complex, Stiles remembers, claiming that the older ones would be less likely to complain of noise. There's only two units to a floor, and Derek made sure to rent one out next to a young couple who had a place in New York City.

It's not that he isn't ready to go inside, but he thinks about moving and his body protests. Suddenly his limbs are lead, and it would take too much effort to move them. Irrationally, he wishes Derek would come and carry him.

He's had bad dates before. Freshman year was awash with them. Jittery nervous boys who should still be in high school, older guys in suits, the guy behind the coffee counter. He's even gotten on his knees for some of them, sucked dick in the dark backroom of a club.

But he's always  _wanted_  to do it.

No one has ever - he's never -

His breaths shorten and he clenches his fist tight, half-moon indentations from his fingernails pressed into his palms. He brings a fist to his teeth and bites down on his knuckles, curbing the sense of panic with a little bit of pain. The biting makes him monitor his breathing, a little trick he picked up toward the end of high school, and it's no more than another minute before his heart is beating somewhat normally, though still loud in his own ears. The lights flick on in the loft above the consignment shop, Derek's shadow behind the curtains against the front windows.

He watches the shadow for a moment, imagines Derek looking for the remote for his television, toeing off his shoes and letting the carpet rub against the bottoms of his feet.

Cautiously, he opens the car door and gets his feet onto the ground, grateful that the lead-weight feeling has passed.His chin throbs. He could really use some ice.

.

Derek's apartment hums with white noise. The television is on, tuned in to some local football game. The laptop in the kitchen is playing music - something guitar-laden and low-key and bare. It's for Stiles, he realizes as soon as he's through the door, since Derek's the kind of guy who is most comfortable alone with a single bare lightbulb and a heavy book. Even his own phone bothers him, at times.

The white noise gives Stiles other points of focus, and he's grateful. He pictures Chuck briefly, his narrowed, enraged face, and feels bile rising up to his throat. Hastily he swallows it down and takes off his shoes and nearly throws himself onto the couch in the living room, watching the game and pretending to care. "Who's winning."

"Home team," Derek answers, sitting down next to him on the couch. The cushions dip. Stiles tucks his feet under himself and settles back into the leather. There are two steaming mugs on the coffee table in front of them.

"For me?" he asks, already reaching for the one closest to him.

"It's not caffeinated." Derek's lip twitches into something resembling a smile. "I'd rather not give you caffeine if you're going to be staying over."

"I'm not  _that_  bad," Stiles mumbles into the mug. He forgets and presses the hot ceramic to his bottom lip, and a jolt of pain passes through him. The cup clinks when he sets it down again, and he feels dejected.

"No, you're not." It's oddly cryptic.

Derek watches the game with intent, even though Stiles knows he has little to no interest in football, waiting. He doesn't have to wait long, since Stiles has never been able to stay truly quiet, always thinking aloud, always bursting with words. Sometimes he feels like he has so many in his own head his brain's going to explode. There's an explosion coming, now.

The car had been too quiet. And now, this.

"Thanks for the ride," Stiles says, and knows he's not done. "I mean it. That was - I was. Being stupid. Yeah, that was really stupid of me. I should have known, you know? I didn't think you would pick up. But I'm glad you did. Honestly. Because no one else would have just let me - let me not explain it. So. Since that happened, I should explain it."

"You don't have to," Derek interrupts, low, like he's not sure the words are really necessary.

They aren't, not really, because Stiles has committed, and once he's committed, he's going to see it through.

"You're right. I don't have to. But I should. And I  _want_  to. To you. But you have to swear, like, confidentiality, okay? Werewolf-swear with your big werewolf-paws."

Derek holds up his hand like a boy scout, raising an eyebrow, and Stiles barks out laughter.

"Okay, okay, okay. So--"

Noise erupts from the television. Home-town touchdown.

"So," he begins again, turning his attention back to Derek. "This thing on my face. I got. Hit. My date hit me because I wouldn't put out. It's stupid, right? We were in the bathroom. Well, he  _followed_  me into the bathroom. I knew him in high school, right? He was an okay guy. Creepily reminds me of Jackson, but." He shrugs. "He came back into town and wanted to meet up. I told him no. I  _said_  no. But he - but he--"

He screws his eyes shut and groans through his teeth in frustration. The words won't come out.  _He thought I was a slut_ , he thinks. He thought Stiles was easy. He thought Stiles would get on his knees for him. He thought he could  _convince_  Stiles to do so. He thought Stiles was worth a sixty-dollar dinner.

And the thing is - the thing is Stiles usually can be convinced. Likes stretching his lips over the head of someone's dick, loves all the little noises he can solicit from them with just his tongue. Yeah, he  _likes_  it.

Usually.

Derek wraps his fingers around Stiles' wrist, and he realizes he's biting his knuckles again, breathing into his own fist.

"You said no," Derek repeats back to him. "Anything after that is not on you."

"I've dealt with crazy zombie werewolves, and giant lizards, and warlocks, and demons, Derek," he protests, stubborn, refusing to acknowledge the pit of feeling that's forming in his chest. "This can't be the thing that -- it's not even a big  _deal_."

"Does it feel like that to you?" Derek draws his wrist down, turns the palm of his hand up so that his wrist is resting on his denim-covered thigh. Stiles unclenches his fingers when Derek rubs at the thready pulse there with his thumb.

"No," Stiles whispers, ashamed. "It feels like a big deal."

"Then it's a big deal," Derek says, persistent.

Stiles' lower lip wobbles, that pricking sensation again at the backs of his eyes. He's going to cry. He's going to  _cry_  in Derek Hale's loft in front of Derek Hale on his couch while he watches. "Jesus, fuck," he says aloud, the first tears welling over and spilling, relief flooding him at being able to release the pressure.

The tears are wet hot tracks marking his cheeks. Embarrassment makes his face flame, and the tears get stuck in his throat when he speaks. "God, I swear I'm not - I think I'm just coming down from the shock of getting bitch slapped.  _God_ , I was  _bitch slapped_ , Derek. That's just - that's just - it's  _funny_ , right?"

Derek doesn't say anything, just watches him, mouth a grim line, running his fingers smoothly over Stiles'. It's nice.  _Derek's_  nice. A calm focal point for him to mirror.

"It's not funny," he continues, reading the expression on Derek's face for what it is. "Okay, it's not funny."

His tears have dried up, thank god, though his cheeks are still wet. More evidence pointing to the fact that they were spurred on by shock.

"It's not funny," Derek assures him, "and I'm getting you ice for that."

He leaves Stiles on the couch and moments later he hears the sucking sound of the freezer opening in the kitchen, a crinkle of ice. Stiles turns back to the game and tries to watch it. The home town is leading by a landslide, though, so there's not even any fun in rooting for the underdog. Then Derek returns and just presses the baggie full of ice, wrapped in a cloth towel, to Stiles' face, and Stiles has to reach up and hold it there. He glares, wonders what kind of image he strikes, wet-cheeked and red-faced. Outside, it's dark, and he can hear cars passing by underneath the windows.

"Who did it?" Derek asks once he's sitting down again, facing towards the television. He doesn't look at Stiles, and it makes it easier to talk.

"Chuck Forrester," Stiles spits, grimacing against the ice. It's starting to numb his cheek. "Charles Forrester."

"Huh." Derek makes an interested noise. "Little shit was bench warmer freshmen year, you know that?"

Stiles stares at him, gaping. He should really stop being surprised at the little pieces of humanity that Derek shares, sometimes. They've become more frequent, lately, and it makes Derek more real, like a 2D sketch finally brought to life. "No," Stiles says simply. "I didn't know that."

They finish watching the game, Derek stonily silent throughout and he doesn't look at Stiles - there's no sympathy or coddling or platitudes. Just Derek watching the game with him, like this could be their normal Friday night. When it's over Derek takes the ice and the mugs cooling on the coffee table and pads over to the kitchen, placing everything into the sink. The local news comes on, and Stiles stretches himself out along the couch, taking up as much space as possible, watching it. He forces Chuck out of his thoughts, and it's okay.

A pile of blankets lands on his lap from above. Derek's standing behind the couch, smirking. "You good?" he asks, voice like a growl.

"Yeah." Stiles swallows, feels heat creep back into his cheeks and snake along his jawline, aggravating the bruise forming.

Derek says, "You could take the bed," but he seems reluctant about offering. Stiles likes the couch just fine, and tells him as much. Derek shrugs. "There's an extra toothbrush in the cabinet above the sink. Help yourself."

Stiles does.

.


	3. Chapter 3

When Stiles wakes, the television is still on and tuned in, this time, to the morning news, the anchor going on about some spike in pricing, and the apartment smells like coffee and his back pops when he stretches his arms above his head, luxurious, the shirt from last night riding up his belly from the hemline of his jeans.

He flops back onto the cushions and hums sleepily at the shadow above him. Derek, in a thin white t-shirt, frowns down at him, hair sleep-mussed, stubble darkening his jaw. "Your face looks better," Derek informs him.

He makes a noise of confused thanks. "Coffee," he's pretty sure he says. The hinge of his jaw aches a little, but otherwise he's feeling pretty fit, rested as much as one can be after spending the night on a couch in yesterday's clothes. Glass clinks against the wood of the table. Derek has set down a mug.

"We're going to the diner for some breakfast," he says next, needlessly stoic so early in the day. "I haven't gone grocery shopping yet."

"Yet?" Stiles repeats, curious. Derek's mouth drags down further into a frown.

"Ever," he clarifies, rolling his shoulders.

Stiles drinks the coffee Derek gave him, waits for Derek to finish using the shower and the bathroom before using it himself, unwrapping the extra toothbrush he finds in the cabinet and following Derek around in a towel and dripping water over his floors until Derek concedes and lets him borrow a shirt. It hangs a little big on him, loose around the chest, shows the dip of his collarbone if he stretches one way or another. He catches Derek staring as they're walking out the front door, so he pulls the shirt up a little bit, but it just slides right back down.

The don't talk about the night before on the short drive over to the diner, the memory of it still too fresh and raw in Stiles' mind, anyway, to be prodded and poked. But he does think, how his lips are bruised and puffy, how it hurts to open his mouth for a yawn. How ironic that Chuck's violence prevents Stiles from doing exactly what he wanted him to do.

Stiles shivers, and he blames it on the air conditioning Derek's blasting in the car, warding off the summer heat.

.

Isaac places their plates piled high with scrambled eggs, pancakes, sausage links, and fruit haphazardly onto their booth table, sighing a little as though exasperated. Maybe he is. Maybe he does this every morning for Derek.

"How often do you come here?" Stiles asks him accusingly.

Isaac answers for him. "Too often. I swear we go through an entire farm's worth of eggs every week because of him."

Derek stays silent. He gives his coffee - the second cup that morning, Stiles notices - a withering glare, and then he mixes sugar into it, liberally. Stiles scoffs at that.

Isaac says, "You'd think he'd at least learn how to make himself a sandwich."

Isaac's one of those people who didn't so much grow out of his boyishly-good looks as grow  _into_  them. Blonde, perfect locks a picture of innocence in sharp juxtaposition to his wicked-light blue eyes and arched eyebrows. Stiles is man enough to admit that he's a little jealous. He sips his own coffee, black, and eyes the plate of eggs Derek's devouring. He's used to it by now, how werewolves eat about three times as much as a normal human being, but it's still addicting to watch, like a snake unhinging its jaw to swallow an animal whole.

"What happened to your face?" Isaac asks next, and it makes Stiles reach a hand up to cup his jaw reflexively, to cover the marks there. Derek narrows his eyes at Isaac, and then at Stiles.

"I, uh, had an accident," Stiles hedges, because he doesn't want to say,  _I refused to blow a guy and he backhanded me for it_. Sounds tragic when he lays it out like that in his head. Isaac sits right down next to him in the booth, even though he's working, and turns Stiles' face towards him with smooth hands. Derek stabs aggressively at a sausage link and shoves it in his mouth.

"Looks painful, human." Isaac smirks, pries Stiles' hands away from his own face to replace them with the tingling touch of his fingers, and then he's leeching away a little of the pain. Stiles leans into it, needy. Derek kicks him under the table but glares at Isaac.

"Ow!"

Isaac laughs. "I think that was meant for me. God, Derek. Use your words."

Derek says, "Table in the corner needs more ketchup," pointing at the table with his fork. He raises both eyebrows at his beta, and his beta goes, whining a little under his breath.

"Are your feet made of  _steel_?" Stiles asks in wonderment, rubbing at his shin underneath the table. "Because holy  _shit_ , Derek."

"Sorry," Derek mumbles, looking contrite. As contrite as one can be while shoveling bite-sized chunks of pancake drenched in maple syrup into his face. Stiles is about to launch into a monologue of the virtues of basic table and dining etiquettes, with particular focus on the use of a fork  _and_  knife, thank you very much, when suddenly Derek's shoulders stiffen and he raises his head from his plate, alert, like a dog catching a scent.

Then, Derek definitely turns his nose up into the air and sniffs.

It would be funny - Stiles could let loose an army of tracker dog jokes - except in that exact moment Chuck Forrester walks through the door of the diner, in Stiles' direct line of vision, and Stiles feels the bottom fall out of his stomach.

He wishes he had a menu so that he could cover his face. Instead, he feels Derek's ankle again, this time in no mood to strike, pressing against his. He supposes a guard dog functions just as well.

Chuck's gaze drifts over the customers of the diner, and when he catches sight of Stiles, he leers.

He thinks then that it's possible to siphon anger off of someone close to you, because in that flash of a second, his body suddenly lights up with it, crisp and clear and committed, and Derek lifts the corner of his mouth up at him in a half-smile, reaches out with his hand and takes Stiles fingers on the table. Chuck inevitably targets him, targets  _them_ , and swaggers over to their booth, two friends in tow who don't look like they were produced in Beacon Hills.

They stand in front of the booth, and Derek keeps his head down; if Stiles ducks he can see the flash of red in his eyes.

"Hey,  _Stiles_ ," Chuck drawls, drawing out the sibilance of his name. "So you made it back all right, huh."

"Hey, Chuck," Stiles answers pleasantly. "I see you found what you needed last night  _elsewhere_." He glances at the two other guys significantly and smiles at their confusion. Derek sniggers, his fingers tightening around Stiles'. Chuck, though, immediately turns bright red in the face. His friends go sit at a table that's just been bussed and Chuck lingers, ego bruised.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what you think it's supposed to mean."

"Are you suggesting - " Chuck sputters. "Oh, I see," he glowers. "You jealous? You wanted to be the one, after all?"

That's when Derek looks up and shoots Chuck with his serial-killer-stare, except without the glowing red eyes, and Chuck takes an involuntary step back. "Who's this?" Chuck squeaks, affronted and embarrassed. He continues at a lower octave, "Your boyfriend?"

Stiles opens his mouth to answer, but Derek beats him to it.

"Yeah. That's right." Derek cocks his head to the side. Stiles' mouth is still open, and he turns to gape at Derek.

The laugh that comes out of Chuck's mouth is slightly hysterical. "You can't be serious."

"He's serious," Derek tells him, all smooth monotone. "He tells me you got a little handsy last night." Derek squeezes his fingers again, as if to say,  _come on, Stiles, play along._

Stiles gets it, he does, and he also doesn't appreciate being treated like a delicate flower, even though he bruises easily. "Der, babe, I can handle myself."

"I have no doubt." Derek sits back, letting his fingers drag along Stiles until he has to let go. It's strange, how menacing Derek can look even though he's the one sitting down in an enclosed booth with Chuck looming over them, but he bares his teeth and says, "I just get a little protective."

"You sad I marked up your little boy toy?  Guess he's no fun if he can't work his mouth." Brave words, for the little tremor even Stiles can hear running underneath them, like an current. 

Very casually, the fork in Derek's other hand bends between his thumb and forefinger. Chuck's eyes dart back and forth between he and Stiles, looking uncentered and a little freaked out. "Yeah, you should probably not continue that line of conversation," Stiles instructs, head buzzing with untethered anger. Derek's ankle bumps against his again, and he lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

He's never really wanted to inflict pain on anyone else before. He's wanted  _revenge_ , sure, payback for injuries caused to his friends, because no one hurts what's his, not ever. But he's never really wanted anyone to suffer for what they did to  _him_. Not even Gerard, not really, crazy geriatric that he was.

But, Chuck.

He really wants to run Chuck over with his Jeep, twice, and then throw his body into the river. He blinks, surprised at his own thoughts.

Isaac shuffles over to refill their coffees, fixing Chuck with his best harried-waiter eye. "This guy giving you a problem?" he asks Derek and Stiles, eyes never leaving Chuck's face. Chuck balks at the three of them, obviously sensing some coalition forming - formed - whatever.

"You should probably leave before Derek sticks the mangled remains of his fork through your eye and gouges it out." Stiles says this pleasantly, thin smile stretched over his face. He wants Chuck out. He wants to get out of this diner. He wants to bury himself under the blankets on Derek's couch and stay there, warm and safe, until the cut on his lip is healed and Chuck is back out of town again and he can forget this ever happened. He thinks maybe this has put him off sex, for a while, and is definitely okay with that.

Chuck grumbles, but obviously sees that he's outnumbered and toeing the line to a pub-style brawl before noon. "Whatever, man. Just - whatever." He flinches when Isaac turns to face him with the pot of coffee in his hand, and then he leaves to join his friends at a table at the other end of the diner.

"I heard everything," Isaac says guiltily. "Kind of hard not to."

For a second Stiles panics, thinking he means that the entire diner has overheard their conversation, but then he remembers,  _oh yeah, heightened werewolf senses_ , and settles back into his seat, skin still tingling. He's not so angry anymore. Just resigned.

"What a douche." Isaac leans over the table a little, conspiratorially. " _I_ wouldn't want any of that near or around my face, either."

Derek laughs first, and the wonder is so raw on Stiles' face that Isaac looks over and then he's laughing, too. And then Stiles joins in, and the best part is looking over at Chuck's table and seeing the aggrieved look on his face and thinking,  _yeah, we're laughing at you_. 

.

They leave when Isaac refuses to refill Derek's coffee anymore and the scrambled eggs have turned cold and unappetizing on Stiles' plate. Derek drives him home, lingering on the driveway beside his car before Stiles waves him in and he steps inside the house, ears pricking immediately for other occupants.

Stiles says, "My dad's not home so you don't have to worry."

Derek says, "Okay."

"I'll change into my own shirt," Stiles tells him. "So you can have yours back. Here, come upstairs."

They go upstairs into Stiles' room, and he has a moment to be embarrassed about how messy it is - papers every where even though he's not taking any classes at the moment, clothes strewn about, and empty cans of energy drinks near and inside the waste basket by his desk. "Sorry, it's a little--"

"It's fine," Derek says, sitting on the edge of his bed.

Stiles turns to face his wall by his dresser and pulls off Derek's shirt while Derek looks around the room.

"It's the same," he observes, and Stiles remembers that time Danny had been over and Derek had been Miguel, and it had been a frightening similar situation except for it was Derek who was in need of something to wear. 

"I guess I haven't changed that much," Stiles admits while he pulls on his own shirt, a plain red one that's seen better days. "Or, my room hasn't."

"No, you have," Derek insists. "We've all changed."

Stiles says, "Okay, Ghandi," a little resentfully, and when he turns around Derek is there, a solid wall of heat hovering like static over his skin, and he hadn't even heard the bed creak. Derek brings up his hand slowly, carefully, and brushes the pad of his thumb over Stiles' bottom lip, eyes intent. There's a sting of pain, and then it's gone. "What are you--?" Stiles manages before Derek's lips are pressed against his own, just touching, and nothing more. Derek cups the back of his neck with a warm palm. When he pulls away, he keeps his hand there.

Stiles looks up at him, dazed. "--doing?" he finishes, breathlessly.

"Changing," Derek says. "See?"

"No," Stiles answers. Because he doesn't. He doesn't see at all. He's suddenly angry again, confusion making the anger spike quickly. How dare Derek kiss him after the night he had just had? And he knew! "Don't mess with me, Derek." He holds up his hands between them, in case he needs something else to make his point.  _No_ , he thinks emphatically. Just, no.

Derek's entire face warps. The warm intent look slips and is replaced by something much more familiar and similar to self-loathing. "Oh, god," he says. "No, Stiles - I didn't mean to --" He pauses, frustrated with his lack of ability to form a complete sentence. "I should have just said."

"Said what?" Stiles insists, hands still up, wary. He thinks his heartbeat is under control, but Derek still cocks his head a little to the side in a way that Stiles knows he's listening for something.

"Said that, I like you." The words seem choked out of him. Stiles has to lock his knees or he'd sink to the floor. He feels a little bit like he's been backhanded again, but in a much nicer way.

Derek doesn't say anything after that. He seems to be waiting for some sort of answer, but he hadn't asked a question.

"Okay," Stiles says, thinking about the burning, low-fire attraction he's been harboring for Derek since high school, and about the pack, and the loft he was renting basically for them, and about how Derek's favorite dish was this casserole that Stiles' mom used to make and so he made them in giant amounts for them all, and about college and all the dark-haired guys he'd let take him home. "I guess I like you, too."

Derek quirks an eyebrow at him, an expression so familiar it hurts, and Stiles takes his hands that are still between them and wraps his fingers around the collar of Derek's t-shirt and pulls, until Derek's falling forward onto his mouth for their second kiss, the pressure aggravating the bruise and cut on his face. Derek walks them backwards until the backs of his knees are at Stiles' mattress, and they fall over together, and Stiles hisses a little at the sting when their teeth clack together, but then Derek cups his palm over his neck again and rakes the fingers of his other hand through Stiles' short hair, and it feels good. It feels right.

"I think I'm really shit at relationships," Stiles confesses into Derek's mouth. 

"Perfect," Derek whispers back, flipping them over so that Stiles is below him. "So we'll get better at them."

.

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the lovely[ Lana](http://foldedpinup.tumblr.com/)/[MajorAccent](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorAccent/pseuds/MajorAccent), who wanted [town bicycle!Stiles.](http://foldedpinup.tumblr.com/post/49666738595)
> 
> It was just supposed to be a little diddy with lots of blowjobs but I guess with me you either get 500 words or 5000 words there is no in between. So yeah find me on [tumblr](http://andnowforyaya.tumblr.com) and tell me what you want because chances are I will write it.


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